also curious, was the hero of some encounters with the grizzly bear of
North America. First, I would have you understand what sort of a
creature he had for an opponent. Imagine a monster measuring when
standing upright eight or nine feet, weighing 900 lbs., of a most
terrifying appearance, in agility and strength surpassing all other
animals, and cruel in proportion. Like his cousin the brown bear, whom
he resembles in shape, he is a hermit and lives alone in the immense
trackless forests which covered the Rocky Mountains, and indeed (at
least in olden times) the greater part of North America. During the
day he sleeps in the depths of some mountain cavern, and wakes up at
dusk to go out in search of prey. All the beasts of the forest live in
terror of him--even the white bear flies before him. He would go down
to the valleys and attack the immense herds of buffaloes which grazed
there, and which were powerless against him, in spite of their numbers
and their great horns. They join themselves closely together and form
one compact rank, but the grizzly bear hurls himself at them, breaks
their ranks, scatters them, and then pursuing them till he catches
them up, flings himself on the back of one, hugs it in his iron
embrace, breaks its skull with his teeth, and so goes slaying right
and left before he eats one. Before the Baron's first, so to say,
hand-to-hand encounter with a grizzly, he had been long enough in the
country to know something of their ways, and how worse than useless a
shot is unless in a fatal spot.
After the return to her tribe of Calooa, a young Indian girl, who had
been his one human companion in many days of wandering, the Baron was
left with only his mule Cadi for friend and companion, and naturally
felt very lonely. He set his heart on getting to the top of the Rocky
Mountains, at the foot of which he then happened to be. Their
glittering summits had so irresistible an attraction for him, that he
did not stay to consider the difficulties which soon beset him at
every step. No sooner did he conquer one than another arose, added to
which the cold of these high regions was intense, and it constantly
snowed. After three days he had to declare himself not only beaten,
but so worn out that he must take a week's rest if he did not want to
fall ill. First it was necessary to have some sort of a shelter, and
by great good luck he found just at hand a cavern in the rock, which,
without being exactly a palace, seemed as if it would answer his
purpose.
Upon closer examination he found that it had more drawbacks than he
cared about. All round were scattered gnawed bones of animals, and the
prints of bear's claws on the ground left no doubt as to who the last
inmate had been. The Baron, however, preferred to risk an invasion
rather than seek another abode, and prepared for probable inroads by
making across the entrance to the cave a barricade of branches of oak
tied together with flax, a quantity of which grew near. He then lit a
good fire inside the cave, but as the last tenant had not considered a
chimney necessary; the dense smoke soon obliged him to beat a hasty
retreat. Besides he had to go out to get supplies for his larder, at
present as bare as Mother Hubbard's. With his usual good luck the
Baron found, first, a large salmon flapping wildly in its effort to
get out of a pool, where the fallen river had left it. This he killed,
and next he shot a young deer about a mile away and carried it to
camp on his back. In order to preserve these eatables he salted some
of them with salt that he had previously found in a lake near, and had
carefully preserved for future use. He then dug a hole in a corner of
the cave, putting a thick layer of dry hay at the bottom, and buried
his provisions Indian fashion, in order to preserve them.
As it was still only twelve o'clock, the Baron thought he would spend
the rest of the day in exploring the neighbourhood; first he examined
the cave, which he found to be formed of big blocks of rock firmly
joined together; above the cave rose the cliff, and in front of it
grew a fir-tree, which served at the same time to defend the entrance,
and as a ladder to enable him to mount the cliff. As he could not take
Cadi with him, he fastened him to the fir-tree by his halter and girth
joined together, so as to leave him plenty of room to graze. Then he
put some eatables in his game bag, and set off on a tour of discovery.
When he had walked about three hours, and had reached a rocky point
from which he had a fine view of the surrounding country, he sat down
to rest under an oak-tree. He knew nothing more till the cold awoke
him--it was now six o'clock, and he had slept three hours. He started
with all the haste he could to get back to his cave and Cadi before
dark, but so tired and footsore was he that he was obliged to give in
and camp where he was, for night was coming on fast. It was bitterly
cold and snow fell constantly, so he lit a large fire, which at the
same time warmed him, and kept away the bears whom he heard wandering
round the camp most of the night. As soon as the sun was up in the
morning, he set off with all his speed to see what had become of Cadi;
but though fifteen miles is not much to bears balked of their prey, it
is much to a weary and footsore man, and when he had hobbled to within
half a mile of the camp, he saw that it was too late: the bears, whom
he had driven away from his camp in the night with fire-brands, had
scented poor Cadi, and four of them were now devouring him--father,
mother, and two cubs. Imagine his rage and grief at seeing his only
friend and companion devoured piecemeal before his very eyes!
His first impulse was to fire, but he reflected in time that they were
four to one, and that, instead of avenging Cadi, he would only share
his fate. He decided to wait on a high rock till the meal was ended.
It lasted an hour, and then he saw the whole family set off to climb
the mountain, from the top of which he had been watching them. They
seemed to be making straight for him, and as it would be certain death
to sit and wait for them, he slipped into a cranny in the rock, hoping
that he might not be perceived; even if he was, he could only be
attacked by one at a time. He had not long to wait: soon all four
bears passed in single file, without smelling him or being aware of
him; for this he had to thank poor Cadi: their horrid snouts and jaws
being smeared with his blood prevented their scenting fresh prey.
[Illustration: {THE BARON KILLS THE BEAR}]
When he had seen them at a safe distance, he ventured to go down to
the cave he could no longer call his own. Of Cadi, nothing remained
but his head, still fastened to the tree by his halter. The barricade
was gone, too, and from the cave came low but unmistakable growls.
With one bound the Baron was up the tree, and from the tree on to the
cliff. From there he threw stones down before the entrance to the
cave, to induce the present inmate to come out, in order that he might
take possession again. The bear soon came out, and, perceiving him,
made for the fir-tree. By its slow and languid movements the Baron saw
that it was curiosity more than anger that prompted it, and, moreover,
it was evidently a very old bear, probably a grandfather, whose
children and grandchildren had been to pay it a visit. Curiosity or
not, the Baron had no wish to make a closer acquaintance, and fired a
shot at the brute by way of a hint to that effect. This immediately
turned his curiosity into wrath. Seizing the fir-tree, which he was
going to use as a ladder, he began to climb up. A second shot hit him
in the shoulder. He fell mortally wounded, but even after a third
shot, which took him in the flank, his dying struggles lasted twenty
minutes, during which he tore at the roots of the fir-trees with his
terrific claws. The Baron did not care to waste any of his bullets,
now getting scarce, in putting out of his pain one of Cadi's
murderers. When finally the bear was dead, the Baron came down to take
possession of his cave, and at the same time of the bear's skin. On
penetrating into the cave, he found that the rascal had paid him out
in his own coin, and, in revenge for the Baron taking his cave, had
eaten his provisions. The Baron was quits in the end, however, as the
bear's carcase furnished him meat enough for several days. The Baron
cut off pounds of steak, which he salted and dried over the fire. The
useless remains he threw over the nearest precipice, so that they
should not attract wild beasts, to keep him awake all night with their
cries. Then, having made a huge fire in front of the entrance, which,
moreover, he barricaded with branches, he threw himself on his bed of
dry leaves to sleep the sleep of exhaustion.
Some time passed before the Baron's next encounter with a bear. He was
camping one night in a dense forest, sleeping, as usual, with one eye
and one ear open, and his weapon at hand, all ready loaded. His rest
was broken by the usual nightly sounds of the forest, of leaves
crunched and branches broken, showing that many of the inmates of the
woods were astir; but he did not let these usual sounds disturb him,
till he heard in the distance the hoarse and unmistakable cry of the
bear; then he thought it time to change the shot in his gun for
something more worthy of such a foe. This preparation made, he set off
at dawn on his day's march, which up to midday led him along the bank
of a large river. He thought no more of the blood-curdling howls of
the night, till suddenly he heard from a distance terror-stricken
cries. He put his ear to the ground, Indian fashion, to listen
better, and as the danger, whatever it was, seemed to be coming
nearer, he jumped into a thicket of wild cherry and willow trees, and
waited there in ambush, gun in hand. In a few minutes, a band of
Indians with their squaws appeared on the opposite bank of the river,
and straightway leaped into the water, like so many frogs jumping into
an undisturbed swamp. At first he thought he was being attacked, but
soon saw it was the Indians who were being pursued, and that they all,
men and women, were swimming for dear life; moreover, the women were
laden with their children, one, and sometimes two, being strapped to
their backs in a sort of cradle of birch bark. This additional weight
made them swim slower than the men, who soon reached the opposite
shore, and then took to their heels helter-skelter, except three, who
remained behind to encourage the women.
[Illustration: {THE GRIZZLY}]
The Baron at first thought it was an attack of other Indians, and that
it would be prudent to beat a retreat, when suddenly the same terrible
cry that had kept him awake in the latter part of the night resounded
through the forest, and at the same time there appeared on a high bank
on the other shore a huge mass of a dirty grey colour, which hurled
itself downhill, plunged into the river, and began to swim across at a
terrific speed. It was a grizzly bear of tremendous size. So fast did
it swim, that in no time it had nearly caught up with the last of the
squaws, a young woman with twin babies at her back, whose cries, often
interrupted by the water getting into their mouths, would have melted
the heart of a stone. The three Indians who had remained on the bank
did their utmost to stop the bear by shooting their poisoned arrows at
it; but the distance was too great, and the huge animal came on so
fast that in another minute mother and children would be lost. The
Baron could not remain a spectator of so terrible a scene. He came out
of the thicket where he was hidden, and frightened the Indians almost
as much as if he had been another bear. Resting his gun on the trunk
of a tree, he fired at the distance of 125 yards, and hit the animal
right on the head. It dived several times, and the water all round was
dyed red with blood; but the wound was not mortal, and it continued on
its way, only more slowly. After urging the Indian, who seemed to be
the unhappy woman's husband, to go into the water to help her--for,
through terror and fatigue, she could no longer swim--the Baron took
deliberate aim again and fired. The second shot, like the first, hit
the bear on the head, but again without killing it. It stopped the
brute, however, long enough to let the poor woman get to shore, where
she fainted, and was carried away by the men to the forest, leaving
the Baron and the bear to fight out their duel alone. The Baron had
barely time to reload and climb to the top of one of the trees, when
the bear was already at the foot of it. So near was he when he stood
upright, that the Baron could feel his horrid breath. Up to then the
Baron thought that all bears could climb like squirrels; fortunately
for him he was mistaken. Expecting to be taken by storm, he fired
straight in the creature's face. The two balls took a different
course: one went through the jaw and came out by the neck, the other
went into the chest. The bear uttered a terrific roar, stiffened
itself in a last effort to reach him, and fell heavily on its back at
the foot of the tree. The Baron might have thought him dead had he not
already seen such wonderful resurrections on the part of bears; but
the four shots, though at first they dazed and troubled the beast,
seemed afterwards to act as spurs, and he rose furious and returned to
the charge. The Baron tried to use his revolver, but, finding it
impossible, he drew out his axe from his belt, and dealt a violent
blow at the bear's head, which nearly split it in two, and sent the
blood splashing in all directions. The bear again fell to the ground,
this time to rise no more. The Baron being now convinced that the
grizzly bear is no tree-climber, took his time to draw out his
revolver, to take aim and fire. The shot put out one of the bear's
eyes, the axe had already taken out the other. This finished him, but
his death struggles lasted twenty minutes, during which the tree was
nearly uprooted. When all was at an end the Baron came down; he cut
off the formidable claws, and broke off the teeth with an axe to make
a trophy in imitation of the Indians, and then proceeded to skin him
and cut him up. The Indians, who had been watching the combat at a
safe distance, now came back, enthusiastic. They surrounded them, the
victor and the vanquished, and danced a war-dance, singing impromptu
words. The Baron, seated on the bear's carcase, joined in the chorus;
but the Indians, not content with that, insisted on his joining in the
dance as well. The rejoicing over, the Baron divided among the twenty
Indians the flesh of the bear--about 15 lb. or 20 lb. fell to each.
The skin he kept to himself, and the claws, of which the Indians made
him a warrior's necklace, hanging it round his neck like an order of
knighthood.[3]
[3] The young reader must no longer expect such adventures as the
Baron de Wogan achieved.
_STORIES ABOUT ANTS_
If any one will watch an ant-hill on a fine day in April, he will see
the little inhabitants begin to rouse themselves from their winter's
sleep, which lasts from the month of October, with the red ant at all
events. Groups of them come out to the top of the ant-hill to warm and
thaw themselves in the rays of the sun. Some, more active and robust,
run in and out, waking up the lazy, hurrying the laggards, and rousing
all the little community to begin their summer habits. But this
activity does not last long; they are as yet only half awake, and
still numb and torpid from the winter's cold, and the little throng
increases or diminishes as the sun shines or disappears behind a
cloud. As two, half-past two, and three o'clock arrive, they have
nearly all disappeared inside the ant-heap, leaving only a few
warriors, of a larger make and tried courage, to watch over the
well-being of the little republic and to close up all openings with
tiny chips of wood, dry leaves, and shreds of moss, so as to hide the
entrances from human eye. Two or three sentinels wander round to see
that all is secure. And then they enter, and all is still.
If we come back again in about a week, we shall find the ants in the
middle of their regular migration to their summer quarters, not far
from their winter ones. This takes place, with the red ant, at all
events, with great regularity every April and October. The red ant is
beyond doubt a slave-owner; the slaves may be easily recognised from
their masters by being of a smaller make and light yellow colour. As
soon as the masters have fixed the day of their 'flitting,' they
begin probably to ensure the consent of the slaves by violently
seizing them, and rolling them into a ball, and then grasping them
firmly they set off towards the summer quarters at full gallop, if an
ant can be said to gallop. The master ant is in a great hurry to get
rid of his living burden; he goes straight ahead in spite of all
obstacles, avoiding all interruptions and delays, and as soon as he
arrives at the summer ant-heap, plunges in, deposits the slave all
breathless and terrified from his forced journey, and sets off back
for another.
Darwin, who closely studied the migrations of the ant, says that they
differ in their means of transport: one sort is carried by the slaves;
the other, our friend the red ant, scientifically called 'formica
sanguinea,' carries his property carefully in his mouth. It seems
strange to us that the master should carry the slave, but no stranger
than it would appear to the ants if they should begin to study our
habits, that some of us should sit in a carriage and be driven by the
coachman. The slave, once installed in his summer quarters, seldom
appears again before the autumn exodus, unless in the event of some
disturbance in the camp, or its invasion by some ants of a hostile
tribe, when the slaves take part in the defence and especially watch
over the young ones. The slaves seem to be carpenters and miners, and
warriors when necessary. They build the dwelling, repair it, of which
it has constant need, and defend it in case of attack with dauntless
courage. But their principal duties seem to be to take charge of the
development of the young, and to feed the masters--no small task, as
there seem to be ten masters to one slave, and they seem incapable of
eating unless fed. Experiments have been tried of removing the slaves
from them, and though sugar and every sort of tempting food is put
down beside them, they will starve rather than help themselves. In
fact, one wonders what the masters can be left for but to drive the
slaves, which they do with great ardour. A French gentleman who spent
years studying the habits of the ants, tried one day, by way of
experiment, to take a slave away from its master; he had great
difficulty in removing it from its bearer, who struggled furiously and
clung to its burden. When at last the slave was set free, instead of
profiting by its liberty, it turned round and round in a circle as if
dazed, then hid itself under a dead leaf. A master ant presently came
along, an animated conversation took place, and the slave ant was
seized upon and borne off again to bondage. The same gentleman another
day observed a slave ant venture out to the entrance to the ant-hill
to enjoy the warmth of the sun. A great master ant spied it and set to
with blows of its horns (antennae they are called) to persuade it that
that was not its place. Finding the slave persisted in not
understanding, the master resorted to force, and seizing it by its
head, without taking the trouble to roll it up, as they are generally
carried, he hurled it into the ant-hill, where no doubt it received
the punishment it deserved.
If we came back to the ant-heap a week after our last visit, we should
find the migration finished if the weather has been fine; but ants,
especially after their first awaking, are extremely sensitive to wind
and rain, and only work well in fine weather. They are equally
affected by weather before a storm: even though the sun may be
shining, they will remain in the ant-heap with closed doors. If it is
shut before midday, the storm will burst before evening; if it is shut
before eight or nine in the morning, the rain will fall before noon.
All this time we have been speaking only of the red ant; but there are
any number of different kinds in Europe, not to mention the enormous
ants of the tropics, who march in such armies that the people fly
before them, deserting their villages. Different species differ
totally in their habits and ways of building and living. The greater
number of species live apart, and not in a community with an
elaborately constructed house like the red ant. The little black ant
is the commonest in this country, and the busiest and most active. She
is the first to awake, in March, sometimes in February, and the last
to sleep, sometimes not till November. Their instincts and habits of
activity, however, are apt to deceive them, and they get up too soon.
The French gentleman already mentioned observed an instance of the
kind. On February 24, after an unusually mild winter, the sun shone as
if it were already summer, and it was difficult to persuade oneself
that it was not, except that there were no leaves on the trees, no
birds singing in the branches, and no insects humming in the air.
First our friend went to examine the red-ant heap, which was closed as
usual, all the inhabitants being still plunged in their winter sleep.
The black ants, on the contrary, were all awake and lively, and seemed
persuaded that the fine weather had come to stay. Their instincts
deceived them, for that night it froze; rain, snow, and fog succeeded
each other in turn, and when next he visited the ant-heap he found
them lying in masses, stiff and dead, before the entrance to their
dwelling.
Between the red and black ants there is great enmity, and terrible
combats take place. When they fight they grasp each other like men
wrestling, and each tries to throw the other down, and break his back.
The conquered remain on the battlefield, nearly broken in two, and
feebly waving their paws, till they slowly expire in agonies. The
conqueror, on the other hand, carries away his dead to burial and his
wounded to the camp, and then, entering triumphantly himself, closes
the doors after him. The gentleman already quoted witnessed the
funeral of an ant. He had passed the ant-heap about a quarter of an
hour, and left, as he thought, all the inhabitants behind him, when he
saw what appeared to be an enormous red ant making for home. On
stooping to look more closely, he saw that it was one ant carrying
another. He succeeded in separating them from each other, and then
saw that the burden was neither a slave nor a prisoner, but a dead
comrade being carried back to the ant-heap for a decent burial; for if
ants fall into the hands of the enemy, they are subjected if alive to
the most cruel tortures and if dead to mutilations. Usually, when an
ant is relieved of anything it is carrying--whether it be a slave, a
wounded ant, or some eatable--it will set off at full speed and let
the burden be picked up by the next passing ant; but this one made no
attempt to run away, and only turned round and round in a perplexed
and irresolute way, till its dead friend was put down beside it, then
it seized its precious burden and set off homewards with it.
Travellers even tell that in Algeria there are ant cemeteries near the
ant-heaps.
No lover of animals doubts that they have a language of their own,
which we are too stupid or deaf to understand. Anyone who studies the
ways of the ants sees, beyond a doubt, that they too have a way of
communicating with each other. For instance, an ant was one day seen
at some distance from the ant-hill, and evidently in no hurry to go
back to it. In the middle of the path she perceived a large dead
snail. She began by going round and round it, then climbed on its
back, and walked all over it. Having satisfied herself that it was a
choice morsel, but too large for her to carry home alone, she set off
at once to seek help. On the way she met one of her companions; she
ran at once to her; they rubbed their antennae together, and evidently
an animated conversation took place, for the second ant set off
immediately in the direction of the snail. The first one continued on
her way home, communicating with every ant she met in the same way; by
the time she disappeared inside the ant-heap, an endless file of busy
little ants were on their way to take their share of the spoil. In ten
minutes the snail was completely covered by the little throng, and by
the evening every trace of it had vanished.